


Smells Like Home

by pillage_and_lute



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Comfort No Hurt, Fluff, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Platonic Relationships, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Eskel (The Witcher), Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, platonic intimacy', the famous hot springs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:09:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28543842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pillage_and_lute/pseuds/pillage_and_lute
Summary: Everybody's touch starved and everybody gets their hair washed.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Eskel & Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 440





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> @thequeeninyellowlace on Tumblr requested “Geraskier discovering that angry, testy Lambert is actually a big kitten? ❤️❤️”

“I can’t believe you brought your bard to the keep,” Lambert groused. It was the same complaint he’d had all week, ever since Geralt arrived with Jaskier in tow.

“He’s my bard, this is my home,” Geralt said. “I wanted to bring him here.”

Lamberts stood, slamming his mug on the dinner table and glaring at Jaskier. “You wanted a whore to warm your bed in the winter.”

“No,” Jaskier said calmly, turning over a page in the book he’d borrowed from the keep’s library. “Geralt wanted a slut to keep his bed warm in the winter. That’s me.”

“I don’t see a difference,” Lambert growled.

“Lambert c’mon,” Eskel groaned. “This is getting old.”

“The difference,” Jaskier said, speaking over the scarred wolf but not looking up from his book. “Is that I love Geralt very much and I fuck him for free.”

Lambert stormed out, presumably to go throw things about in the armory. Geralt pressed a kiss into Jaskier’s hair.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “He’s not good with change.”

“It’s okay, dear heart, I’m sure he’ll warm up to me.”

Eskel stood and began clearing the dinner dishes. “Good luck with that,” he said.

Vesemir smiled across at Geralt and Jaskier, who were sitting so closely entwined. It was good to see his reclusive pup happy, and he had an idea what had gotten under Lambert’s skin. Before he retired to the library, Vesemir paused, resting a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. 

“I’m glad you’re here.”

Jaskier smiled in return.

\-- -- -- -- -- -- 

Some days later the younger wolves were relaxing in the hot springs after training. Vesemir had well and truly put them through their paces and their muscles needed a good, long soak. 

Jaskier appeared, looking almost as beat as they felt. He’d been tending the handful of sheep and two goats that Vesemir kept, mending their fence today. In the cold, with the animals butting in and distrustful, it was hard, slow work. He slid in beside Geralt with a sigh.

Lambert huffed, but, exhausted, wasn’t about to leave the hot springs. Eskel eyed him in amusement.

Geralt, to the shock of everyone but himself and Jaskier, curled himself in and rested his head on Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier didn’t even blink and instead reached around and began stroking Geralt’s back and shoulders soothingly. This continued for a few minutes, the other wolves watching a little dumbly. Then Geralt pressed a light kiss to Jaskier’s collar bone and turned around on the ledge, resting his arms out of the bath. Jaskier took this in his stride too and began firmly kneading out the knots between Geralt’s shoulder blades. 

Lambert saw the difference now. Jaskier wasn’t a whore, because even the best paid ones wouldn’t touch so...reverently. They didn’t gentle the tension out of scarred skin and pull the knots from muscles. He shot a glance at Eskel, who was watching with the same half envy half hunger that he felt.

Then Jaskier just got up and walked over to a basket settled next to the wall. He and Geralt had brought that too, it had soaps and oils in it. Jaskier hesitated for a moment, then he picked up the whole basket and brought it to the edge of the hot spring. 

He settled back in, seemingly unaware of the eyes on him, and handed Geralt a bar of soap. It was the usual pale yellow-white color for soap, but Vesemir made all his soap in a big vat and it smelled to high heaven and cleaned by taking a layer of skin off every time it was used. This stuff smelled nice.

“Chamomile,” Eskel said, sniffing. “And bergamot?” 

“Very good,” Jaskier said. “It’s Geralt’s favorite.”

Geralt having a favorite soap was news to his brothers, but they didn’t comment. Jaskier poured a little oil into his hands, but it was mixed with soap or something, because he rubbed it into a bit of a lather and began to work it through Geralt’s hair. 

Geralt reacted like a pampered housecat, arching back into the touch and humming as Jaskier worked. The bard seemed to be doing something of a scalp massage while cleaning and the wolves heard a rumble start up in Geralt’s chest.

It wasn’t purring, not exactly. But all witchers could do it, only when they were truly relaxed of course. It was a whole chest rumble that always seemed to soak into their bones. Lambert scowled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d purred.

Eventually, with Geralt boneless against the side of the pool, Jaskier finished, rinsing the suds from snow white hair and kissing the back of Geralt’s head.

“Alright,” Jaskier said, pulling two more bars of soap from his basket. “Pick one, each of you.”

“What?” Lambert said. 

“I brought five types of soap, Geralt told me about what you all have up here. So I brought his and mine, and one for each of you. Vesemir already picked his.”

“Did he?” Geralt asked.

“Yes dear heart, he gave me the tour the other day, picked that fig and goat’s milk one I brought”

“Hmmm,” Geralt replied, seemingly fast asleep.

Obediently, and somewhat hypnotized, Eskel and Lambert leaned forward to sniff each soap bar. 

The first made Eskel’s nose crinkle, and he quickly moved on to the second one, but Lambert lingered. The first one was nice. 

It was slightly green, which was weird, but it was nice.

They each picked the one they wanted and Jaskier smiled. “Excellent,” he said. “Now let me wash your hair.”

“Geralt,” Lambert said, immediately on edge. “Your bard is trying to fuck us.”

“My bard,” the white wolf answered drowsily, “Is trying to help you. Be nice.”

“You first,” Lambert muttered to Eskel. Eskel just shrugged and let Jaskier work on his back, settling in to a very similar position to the one Geralt had taken. He let out a few grunts as the bard worked skilled fingers into the cords of muscle on either side of his spine, but they certainly didn’t sound pained. Eskel even chatted quietly with Geralt as Jaskier worked. Then, obediently, he let Jaskier wash his hair.

“The soap you picked is oat and lavender,” the bard said. “So I have lavender oil for your hair, but tell me if it’s too strong, we can use something else.”

Eskel sniffed as Jaskier poured some of the faintly purple liquid into his palm. “Smells fine,” he said. Jaskier smiled, humming faintly as he worked it into Eskel’s hair, commenting a few times on how well kept it was. 

“Geralt always let’s his turn into a rat’s nest whenever I’m away.”

That made Eskel and Lambert raise their eyebrows. Geralt had always been meticulous about his hair, more so than was practical for a witcher. Eyebrows raised further when he blushed slightly and avoided their gaze.

The scalp massage continued and, to Lambert’s complete surprise, Eskel began to purr quietly. Jaskier smiled, but not mockingly or cruelly, and continued his work.

Eventually Jaskier finished with Eskel’s hair and then looked towards Lambert questioningly. “I don’t have to wash your hair if you’d rather I didn’t,” he said. “But I like doing it, and I think you’d like it too.”

“Let him, Lamb,” Geralt grunted before Lambert could say anything. 

“I was going to,” he grumbled as he turned around. 

The first press of hands into his back nearly burned. 

Money was scarce on the Path, even with Toss a Coin playing in every tavern. This year had been harsh on many of the villages Lambert passed through too, and they paid him what they could. 

Sometimes he was in the business of returning most or all of the payment, if things were bad.

All that to say, there had been no prostitutes, or bed mates of any kind, all year. Maybe one or two the year before that. Apart from his brothers, who he sparred with and got drunk with, almost no one touched him.

Jaskier touched him like being afraid of him was a foreign concept. Calloused fingers found every knot and point of tension and worked them out. Lambert felt like dough under a rolling pin.

“Where did you learn this?” he wondered aloud. “And why?”

Jaskier chuckled, digging his fingers into Lambert’s neck as he did so in a way that should have set off alarm bells but instead just sent electricity down his spine. “See,” Jaskier said. “I spent my time at university working for a bathhouse to make extra money-well, it was mostly a brothel but it offered baths. I just warmed up towels and sliced soap.”

“Mmmhm,” Lambert said, feeling his mind numb under the onslaught of touch.

“And one of the older women there, Rosie, lovely lady, taught me to make soap and find the right ones. Also taught me about massage, not the happy ending kind, that education I got elsewhere, but good information.”

It must have been, Lambert thought. It felt like Jaskier’s hands were touching his soul through his skin. 

Then Jaskier moved on to his hair. 

Lambert let the feeling wash over him as gentle fingers kneaded into his head, taking away headaches he hadn’t known were there. Manicured fingernails scratched lightly at his scalp. 

It was so good.

It was so nice to be touched when it wasn’t sex or sparring. It felt like a balm on Lambert’s soul and he’d been so jealous. Geralt had brought the bard and gotten all the touch he could want and left Eskel and Lambert without, but he was sharing this. It was like honey inside his brain. To his shame Lambert felt his eyes prickle. 

Witchers could cry. Their eyes didn’t tear up with wind, dust, or pain as much, because that could compromise their eyesight in battle, but emotion could bring tears. 

“It’s okay,” Geralt whispered, although not so low that Jaskier wouldn’t hear. “He won’t judge you.”

“I did too, a little,” Eskel said. Had he? Lambert hadn’t noticed. He let tears fall mixing with the moisture from the steam on his face. Jaskier reached around to get more oil and one landed on his hand, so he brushed a thumb down the tear track on Lambert’s face.

It could have, should have felt either patronizing or romantic. It wasn’t. It was just intimate. Gentle, intimate, platonic touch. Lambert began to cry a little harder. 

Geralt sidled over and leaned against him, pressing their shoulders together. Eskel joined in on the other side so that Lambert was sandwiched between his older brothers. 

They sat like that until Jaskier rinsed out Lambert’s hair.

He’d taken longer on the wash, Lambert noted, even though he had the least hair of the three of them. He was grateful for it. 

Eskel and Lambert watched as Geralt washed Jaskier’s hair, passing Geralt the bottle of oil--mint, to go with the mint and honey soap Jaskier favored--whenever Geralt needed it.

Lambert realized he was purring, and wondered how long he’d been doing it, but he had a pretty good idea.


	2. Balm

“Darling,” Jaskier said at the breakfast table in Kaer Morhen.

“Hmm,” Geralt said.

“No not you, platonic darling.”

“Don’t call me darling,” Lambert said, wiping up egg yolk with his toast.

“You aren’t darling right now, you blacked my romantic darling’s eye,” Jaskier sniped, although not nastily.

“It was an accident,” Lambert sniffed.

Geralt snorted. “Was not.”

“Anyway,” Jaskier interrupted the impending sibling tiff. “I was talking to my platonic darling. Eskel, you’ve been licking your lips extra, what’s up?”

Eskel gave a single shoulder shrug. “They’re just chapped,” he said. “And the, um,” he made a clawing gesture across his face. “Where it catches my lip, makes the chapping worse.”

“Oh Eskel I wish you’d said, I’ve got excellent balms for chapped lips.”

That of course led to Jaskier spending almost three hours at the little table he’d set up in the bathing room with the hot springs. He kept his soaps there and mixed oils and things. It was like a little apothecary for all things skin. 

Just the week previously he’d made a lotion for Lambert’s hands. In the winter the youngest witcher’s knuckles got cracked and raw, even with witcher healing. Usually he’d just wrap them in bandages and use his elbows in hand-to-hand instead of fists, but Jaskier had tut tutted. He’d mixed up a healing balm, apologizing all the while for the strong smell, but then he’d smeared the thick ointment across Lambert’s knuckles and wrapped them, telling him to leave it overnight.

Lambert was a bastard in most things, but he wasn’t going to ruin Jaskier’s hard work. In the morning the skin had been properly healed, not chapped, cracked, or dry. Now all the witcher boys (and Vesemir, who seemed quite delighted) had little bottles of hand lotion to use. Not the strong smelling healing ointment, but nearly unscented lotion to protect their skin from the keep’s cold air.

After that small miracle, the boys weren’t going to turn down another. They sat, steeping in the hot springs, and watched Jaskier work. He was humming and his hands were busy with a mortar and pestle. Occasionally he’d reach out and add something from his little apothecary stash to the bowl.

“You know witches?” Lambert said. “Not sorceresses but the kind they tell village kids about to scare them?”

“Mmmhm,” Geralt said. Eskel nodded.

“He’s kind of like one of them,” Lambert said. “Just give him a boiling cauldron and a pointy hat.”

Jaskier transferred his concoction to a different bowl and mixed. It looked like beeswax, probably from the keep’s beehive. 

The beehive was inside the walls, in one of the old rooms, but with access to a window. That way the bees could leave but the temperature stayed warm enough. Vesemir tended them carefully. He was also, Geralt knew, old enough to remember and still participate in the old beekeeping tradition of telling the bees about goings on in the household. Usually this would mean marriages, births, and deaths. Vesemir ranted about whatever idiotic thing his boys had gotten up to instead.

Jaskier mixed his balm and transfered it into a few little pots with lids. Then he sat crosslegged at the side of the hot spring. 

“Eskel you first,” he said.

“I don’t need it,” Lambert began.

“You’re all getting it, I don’t care.”

Eskel obediently waded over to Jaskier. 

To his surprise, Jaskier took a finger full and gently began putting it on for him.

“I can–”

“It’s harder if your finger is wet,” Jaskier said. “And I like taking care of you.” His finger reached the uptick in Eskel’s lip where his scar was. The skin was sensitive and he had to repress a shiver as Jaskier’s finger, and the slightly tingling balm, passed over. 

Jaskier looked closer. “Is your whole scar chapped?” he asked. Eskel shrugged. 

“The scar tissue is delicate so…maybe? It doesn’t hurt.”

Jaskier was already spreading a thin layer of ointment over Eskel’s scar, brow furrowed in concentration and concern.

No one ever touched Eskel’s scars without fear or disgust, but Jaskier…he acted as if it was just normal. He always did. He never danced around the subject, never asked about it, just acted like it was any other feature of Eskel’s face. To his surprise, a purr began rumbling in Eskel’s chest at the thought.

Jaskier smiled at him, patted his cheek with his non-balmy hand, and began to chase down Lambert and Geralt, who said they didn’t need lip balm.


End file.
